


If you don't have an organic family, store-bought is fine

by Unpronounceable



Category: DCU, Justice League (2017)
Genre: Flash loves his team and everyone loves Flash and I love the JL, Gen, Light Angst, Some humour, Team Bonding, Team as Family, minor cussing, tags will update as I go
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-20
Updated: 2017-11-21
Packaged: 2019-02-04 13:14:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12771831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unpronounceable/pseuds/Unpronounceable
Summary: Barry's father is in jail, his mother’s dead, and he lives alone and illegally in an abandoned warehouse. He’s not entirely sure what a family is like.But if it’s something like this...





	1. Clark

**Author's Note:**

> I got a severe case of the JL hype and figured I might dust off the ol' writing fingers. I intend for this to be a Flash & Everyone thing, each chapter very short & ft. a new member. Lots of found family and team bonding. I'm more of an artist than a writer but I hope you enjoy nonetheless.

Despite all the fighting- which he was still not a fan of- and the meetings- boring if you were a normal person, excruciating for a speedster- and, you know, the fact that nowadays the world needed actual superheroes to keep death tolls to a minimum, being in a team was a pretty sweet deal. They didn’t function together perfectly, and clashed about as often as they agreed on anything, and Barry was still pretty sure that Diana was the only one who actually liked him a little bit, but hey. That’s what a family is like, right?

No, honestly.   
Serious question.   
His father’s in jail, his mother’s dead, and he lives alone and illegally in an abandoned warehouse. He’s not entirely sure what a family is like.

 

But if it’s something like this; Bruce keeping tabs on everyone out of paranoia but probably out of affection too, a little bit; Cyborg making attempts at being familiar with people again, keeping his hood down more frequently as time passes; if it’s like seeing Arthur a few times a week and knowing everyone else gets him maybe once a month if they’re lucky, if it’s Diana staying solid by their side through most everything, actual battles and the private ones; if family is feeling overwhelming pride when the crowd lights up at the sight of Superman and being right there beaming with them, then-

 

-then Barry Allen could really consider settling down with these guys for good.

  
  


* * *

 

 

 

Apparently, a simple chain-and-lock wasn’t enough to keep people out of an abandoned and unassuming warehouse. Yes, Barry should have known that, seeing as how his reaction upon seeing said warehouse was ‘I bet I could live here for at least a year without being discovered, I would save so much on rent, wow’. Followed by breaking into the warehouse.   
Sure, he’d expected some kids to attempt a fun breaking-and-entering in all their adolescent amorality, and a few thugs had drifted in now and then- those promptly got thrown back out on their asses with no clue of what happened. But not even in Barry’s most bizarre what-if scenarios would Superman come barging into his secret hideout.

 

Now, Clark himself is a sweetheart, Barry’s sure, though he’s never had the pleasure of meeting the guy out of costume. Superman is the poster boy of Superhero Advocates, a proof of how much good could be done with inhuman power when it was put in the right hands. Barry isn’t a hermit, he’s read the articles and watched the videos. He’s as much of a fan of Superman as everyone else.

But the thing is, Superman inspires fear in his enemies just as he inspires hope in everyone else, and Barry gets it- after all, he’s been on the receiving end.

  
It’s hard for him to forget. Ever since Steppenwolf showed up to wreak havoc in all his massive, tall, incredibly _tall_ glory, Barry’s gotten some frights. Fighting other superhumans, near-death experiences, that one time where he accidentally vibrated out of his clothes in front of Victor, sparring with Batman. But nothing’s really stuck with him like fighting Superman.   
He remembers it, often when alone or when just entering hyperspeed. He was so used to being practically untouchable in his own fast world, the biggest threat being himself and his own two left feet- but the guttural dread of seeing Superman’s eye track him, locking in on him like something from Jurassic Park, to feel what it was like to not only run but fight in speed- to defend against someone who was almost as fast, and being alone with a threat while the rest of the world trailed by at a snail’s pace and no one could help him because no one else could keep up- not to mention the part where Barry’s head got smashed into the memorial statue. It sticks with him like a piece of chewed gum.

So, yeah, a little freaky to meet the one person who could chase you down and kill you with a single look.

 

Also a little freaky? That person slamming open the doors of your own private illegal warehouse without any warning.

 

“OH- my god, oh my _god_ , don’t you ever do that again,” is what Barry manages to stutter out after coming out from his hiding place behind a crate.   
Superman, in costume- is it weird to call him Clark if he’s in costume? Too familiar? Too risky? But then calling him Superman feels like a power imbalance when Barry is in street clothes, no nevermind that train of thought just focus- Superman walks in, and maybe it’s the eerie dim lighting from the monitors or the way the cape billows behind him, but it brings back the memory of him trying to pummel Barry at superspeed, and suddenly Barry misses his spot behind the crate.

He thought he’d been subtle when he shifted his feet a little, ready to run or dodge, but Superman apparently notices, because he winces and turned from God of Steel to a sheepish country boy so fast Barry notices it quite comfortably.

 

“I’m sorry about your door. I must have lost some muscle memory while taking a coffin nap, I swear I don’t know my own strength anymore.”

 

Barry eases up from his runner’s start position a little, but feels his nerves thrum with electricity anyway.

 

“Don’t worry about it, just uh, don’t do to me what you did to it? Not that I think that’s why you’re here- that’s not why you’re here, right? You’re not, like, evil and grave-crazy again?”

 

Superman smiles and ducks his head, somehow fitting more social grace in that one gesture than Barry has exhibited the entire three minutes that had passed.

 

“No, I- not at all. The door really was an accident, I can fix it for you, I’m quite handy. I came...well, I came to apologize.”

 

“For...breaking my door?”

 

“No-”

 

“Because you broke it to get in here, so not coming in here it would mean you wouldn’t have to apologize, it seems a bit counter-intuitive-”

 

“I’m apologizing for what I did when I was...confused, and attacked you.”

 

Oh, well then. Barry’s about to respond that it’s fine but Superman plows on, intent on reminding Barry about that thing he definitely hasn’t forgotten.

 

“I realize it was most likely your first time seeing me face-to-face, given you live here in Central, and I didn’t really make the best impression...Ma would have me by the ear if she knew.”

Superman shakes his head, still looking a little bit like an ashamed puppy, and this is one of these social situations that Barry is horrible at navigating. He knows he’s supposed to make the other person feel better now, but also accept the fact that they made a mistake, and telling the truth usually doesn’t work out for some reason? So he lies.

 

“It’s all good. I mean, you didn’t even really land much of a hit on me, just tossed me around a little- really, I’ve had worse just falling on my own during a run-”

 

“It’s just that,” Superman interrupts, “you looked...well, terrified, frankly. And according to Bru- to Batman, you’re pretty new to all this, and I just wanted to...make amends?”

 

At least Barry isn’t the only one hung up on the details of that time. If the memory had been bothering Superman all this time, to the point where he shows up at Barry’s house just to apologize, looking like a scolded kid in the body of a jacked alien, that’s...a little sweet? Maybe? And reassuring, because the man standing on the cold concrete floor definitely isn’t the same as the one who’d tried to shatter Barry’s bones with his fist.

Looking at him now, Barry’s not sure why he’d been so wary at first.

 

Superman’s expecting a response, looking a little nervous, and Flash isn’t sure what to say to make his point come across because he’s already forgetting his thoughts as they come and go, so he figures he’ll just do what he normally does.

 

“Hey, you wanna race?”

 

\--

 

He lures Clark in with the logic that it’d make him feel better about the whole attempted supermurder thing if he knows he’s faster than Superman.   
To which Superman had, predictably, replied, “That’s a little presumptuous,” and not an hour later they were poised somewhere in the countryside, gearing up for a race.

 

Flash wins.

 

Maybe Superman let him win, but Flash still brags about it for weeks, and Superman seems to feel a little less guilty, and they both get a warning from Batman to stop breaking the sound barrier.


	2. Diana

 

The reason Barry came up with the Flash costume, the name, the identity and all that, was about as simple as it got: he didn’t want the spotlight on him, but he wanted to help people, if he could. His powers just happen to be perfect for him specifically, by some grace of god. When you’re fast but fairly fragile, just swooping in and saving people is a pretty solid strategy. Let the SWAT teams handle the shooting, fighting  and killing. Flash will be there to nudge bullets away from their unprotected areas or move them just out of the range of an explosion.

And his hands, while clad in red, stay clean.

Is it cowardly? Yeah, absolutely. But Barry will take being a coward over having to make that choice, of whether or not one person’s death was worth what it accomplished. He isn’t Diana, a god, nor is he Superman- _practically_ a god in his own right. He’s just some homeless kid that wants to avoid casualties as much as he can, and if that’s the wrong choice, well, who’s around to stop him?

 

He doesn’t always get the choice.

 

Diana finds him on one of Bruce’s couches at 4 AM, not asking what he was doing there just as he didn’t ask why she was only wearing a knitted sweater and slacks. He figured she and Bruce had reached some kind of...friendship? Casual sex? Partnership in talking about morality in a dramatic fashion until they’re at each other’s throats? Whatever it was, it worked for them, well enough to leave Diana with a free range of the Wayne Manor whenever she felt like it.

Barry just snuck in constantly. Alfred told him he was 'welcome to peruse the facilities', and Bruce still hadn’t told him to leave and not come back, so he considers himself in the clear for now. Sometimes, it’s just nice to not be in the warehouse.

Plus it’s cold out.

 

He switches the channel on the enormous TV faster than she can see, just before they show the mugshots of the suspected perpetrators, and returns to the couch just as she speaks.

 

“Hello, Barry.”

“ _Hi_ , Diana, hello. Hi. I’m just- you’re- you come here often?”

 

She smiles as he winces, apparently finding amusement in his absolute lack of talking skills, and sits by him with her cup of coffee. The smell both calms him down and sets him on edge at the same time, somehow.

 

“I’m glad to see you,” she says. “I was a bit worried when I heard about the bombing in the Central theatre. No casualties, as usual for you.”

 

And she’s being so nice, starting a friendly conversation with him, and he’d love to play it cool like Bruce and say something that says just enough but he can’t control his mouth and he can’t stop himself from shying away because she seems so pleased with him and he has to burst her bubble.

 

“There weren’t no casualties.”

 

Diana’s head swivels to face him, with that piercing look she gets sometimes. He’s never been sure what it means, but she gets it when she thinks she can talk someone down from crime-committing and sometimes when demanding answers. If it means any one thing, it means she’s about to get what she wants one way or another.

 

“The news said-”

 

“All the- the bystanders got out. Or, I got them out. But I didn’t get there in time for- it was a suicide bombing. And they already pressed the triggers, and I had to prioritize the civilians- but it was still three people. Horrible people but I still- I didn’t-”

 

Diana interrupts him with a hand on his shoulder, seemingly not minding the small spark of electricity that zaps her when he startles. But he’s afraid she misunderstands what he’s saying and who is he to be upset about a handful potential mass-murderers dying when she’s been fighting wars on her own, so he keeps going.

 

“I know it’s still the best possible outcome and they were going to kill like everyone and they already made their choice, like I _get_ it, this is the _good_ timeline, I shouldn’t-”

 

“Barry.”

 

One does not talk over Diana when she has that tone, so he audibly snaps his jaw shut and resists the urge to fidget and look away. He only succeeds partially.

 

He expects a lecture, maybe some inspirational godly leader words or whatever she does that makes her so goddamn capable and good, but she surprises him by pulling him into a one-armed hug, tugging him closer until his head’s resting above her shoulder.

Which, okay, weird and unfamiliar. She means it in a good way, he knows, and he appreciates it, he’s just not sure how to respond. So he clenches his fists awkwardly in his lap and his eyes roam around the room trying to find something to look at while he freaks out, and he just knows he’s about as tense as a taut line, but Diana doesn’t falter. Does she ever?

 

“You don’t need to justify feeling bad about death. It’s rarely good, and never easy, and there is far too much of it lately.”

 

Barry thinks about a woman murdered in front of her son and agrees.

 

“The rest of us...maybe we’ve gotten callous. Me and Bruce, Arthur Curry...we’ve seen so much death already, it doesn’t strike us as hard as it used to.”

 

“Not you, though,” Barry chimes on from atop of her shoulder, when did he get there?  “It still gets to you. Otherwise you wouldn’t be, you know, the way you are. Have been. Lately.”

 

Diana went to Themyscira for a week after Steppenwolf. When she came back, there was an air of sadness around her that still hadn’t quite gone away.  
Barry knew there had been significant deaths in the Amazons from trying to protect the motherbox.  He'd only lost a mother and the presence of his father and he still wasn't over it, while she'd outlived so many of her sisters; he could hardly imagine how she felt, attending their burial.

 

Diana smiles, Barry can feel it as much as he can see it, but when she speaks her voice is anything but happy.

 

“It’s true. Innocent lives being stolen, I can hardly imagine a worse crime. But I’m not immune to the lure of Ares, even now. Sometimes I- I get so angry at the people who hurt and kill, I can’t bring myself to regret the loss of their life. I’m not proud of it.”

 

Barry remembers the suicide bombers- what he managed to see of them, in slow motion, as he arrived on the scene. He’s grateful that the smoke and fire obscured most of the gory bits from view, but- not all of them.  
He could still see their faces. Three different people in three different halls, and they looked just as scared as the victims.

No matter how hard he thought about it, he couldn’t be happy they were dead. Even if it was preferable, even if he’d choose that over a death count of dozens. At peace, sure, but not happy.

 

“Wish it didn’t have to happen at all. The world’s so fucked.”

 

He doesn’t realize he’s spoken out loud until he feels Diana hum in recognition, fingers beginning to card through his hair, which is still foreign and _weird_ but he supposes he doesn’t mind it at all.

 

“You have a good heart, Barry Allen. Hold on to that. I think the world will need it.”

 

What does the world need with more worrying and sadness, Barry wants to ask. It could probably do with more Dianas to deliver justice, more Supermen to defy all odds and do what everyone wishes could be done. Probably not more Aquamen. They’d just be at each other’s throats all the time.

But he doesn’t ask, because his eyes are slipping shut, and Diana’s fingers are still playing with his hair, which he probably hasn’t washed in two days and it probably feels gross but she does it anyway.  
He should be all giddy about a gorgeous woman holding him like that, but all he can think about is his mother and how she used to do the same thing any time he lay down near her, and how long it’s been since anything lulled him to sleep besides the hum of computer monitors or a youtube playlist.

It all makes him feel some way, about Diana and himself and their team and the future, but he falls asleep before he can pinpoint the emotion, exactly.

 

But it’s nice.

 

\--

 

“I should really just make guest rooms for the two of you if you’re going to continue invading my house like this.”

 

“Quiet, you’ll wake him up.”

  

“I’m going to draw on his face.”

 

“Arthur, _no._ ”

 

\--

 

He wakes up on Bruce’s couch three hours later, alone and embarrassed and with drool on his cheek, but feeling much lighter.

 

Until he looks in the mirror.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If being somewhat OOC and cliché is what it takes for me to get my sweet fluff then that's just a sacrifice I'll have to make.


	3. Arthur

Drinking has never been his forte. His parents advised heavily against it when he was a child, he had no friends to be rebellious with as a teenager- and no one to buy him alcohol before his legal time. As Flash, even if he wanted to drink, he was having a hard enough time just keeping up with his new job, and classes, and his other job, and his secret identity, and his third job.

Yet he finds himself in a shoddy, greasy old-man bar near Gotham harbour with a shot in his hand and Arthur in the seat next to him. He’s a little cold, and vastly uncomfortable, and he got himself in this mess.

 

Some Atlantean business called for Arthur- Aquaman, but he’s got to get used to their first names or at least last named before he blurts out the superhero alias in the middle of a costco. He’d left on a Wednesday, came back four days later looking like he swallowed a sea urchin, and wouldn’t divulge what was so urgent under the sea.

(Barry knows it’s not good. Arthur didn’t tell him, and Barry hadn’t heard anything, but Diana had, and he could see sympathy in her eyes when she almost laid a hand on Arthur’s shoulder so something must have happened. He doesn’t imagine it’s anything good.)

Despite his foul mood, Arthur had tried to coerce Bruce into going out drinking, as the two were wont to do. But the Batman had plans for flying and drop-kicking bad guys, and Diana didn’t really do the club scene, and Arthur really looked like he shouldn’t be drinking alone.

So, naturally.

“Hey, why don’t I come with you?

An assessing look, running up and down his figure.

“Are you even old enough to drink by human standards?”

“Are the standards different in Atlantis?”

“Forget it, roadrunner, I’m not looking to be arrested. Again.”

“Come on, I bet I can drink you under the table. ….Wait, again, what, what happened last time-”

 

\--

 

“So an Atlantean and a speedster walk into a bar.”

Arthur didn’t look amused when Barry popped the joke when they arrived- he was still pretty pleased about thinking of it- and he didn’t look any more amused now, slouched into a bench in the corner while Barry perched on a small wooden stool on the adjacent side. For about two hours, Barry had tried to keep up a conversation between drinks of awful, dark-coloured alcohol. For every drink the older and vastly more seasoned man brought, he brought one of the same for Barry, who didn’t look a gift horse in the mouth but certainly grimaced and sputtered when he swallowed it.

...Wait. Weird direction to take the idiom. Anyway.

Every now and then, if the drink was particularly foul, Arthur would rumble in satisfaction at it while Barry choked it down, and then he’d smirk at Barry afterwards, as if he was choosing the booziest, nastiest drinks on purpose. He probably was.

But the longer they stayed, the more it seemed like Arthur got into his own headspace, and the less Barry could distract himself from his surroundings. What a party.

“Look, can we like, go? Soon? Neither of us are having fun right now and I don’t even know why I came here.”

Arthur deigns to look at Barry, raising an eyebrow as he throws down the dregs of his drink- must be number nine or ten, by now.

“Not your scene, kiddo?”

“Is it yours? Is it _anyone’s_? It’s smelly in here, the people are loud and gross and weirdly shiny? Like, glistening. And every drink so far tastes like shit. And I feel like I can taste sewage and fish on everyone and not just you with your normal smell-”

He would have gone on complaining, now that someone was finally listening, except it became apparent that he was talking a little too loud when a hand yanked on his shoulder, so hard that he almost fell off his chair with the momentum. Probably knocked down a glass when he braced himself against the table. He can’t say he misses its contents.

“What was that about our bar you were saying? You too _good_ for this kinda place, boy?”

A considerably large, considerably hairy and glistening man sneers in his face, pulling Barry in so close he can make out minute details, such as the stink of alcohol on the man’s every word and peeling skin on his nose.

He’s about to make some excuse just to avoid the trouble, except a hand pulls him _back_ this time- and again, he almost falls because speed does not mean 360° vision, but he stumbles into Arthur’s chest as the Atlantean pushes him back, to the wall, behind himself.

“Hey, ease off, sailor. You don’t wanna go messin’ around the wrong people.”

“Yeah? You gonna stop me, tough guy? You and your sissy?”

Barry continues to be awkwardly glued to the wall while watching the stunning portrayal of testosterone and Alpha male theory currently happening.

God, he hates those things.

Arthur and the man continue sneering at each other, getting closer and closer until their noses are almost touching, classic dude things- but here’s the thing, Barry doesn’t like violence, he kind of actively dislikes it, so he’d rather not see the tension break in the form of a fist-in-face. Arthur, while always very typically masculine, is unusually tense in this situation- sure, he seems to appreciate good old violence, but normally he’d be witty and snarky. Now he’s just clenching his fists, eyes blazing, as if he’d rather just pummel something into the ground than talk it out. And Barry doesn’t like it. He kind of just wants to go home already.

Thankfully, he has a great tactic for these situations; derailing.

 

The world slows to a blurry crawl, and Barry takes a moment to breathe comfortably, shaking out his hands and running his hands through his hair.

Right, so.

He starts by moving the two men apart; just a tiny bit, just enough to get a good hand between them, making sure they won’t trip over themselves when he slows down again.

He slips into the kitchen, finds some cold, stale fries. Eats them. Then finds the hot sauce and dumps the bottle in the guy’s drink after checking to see if he has a medical bracelet or an epipen or anything like that. Wouldn’t wanna cause a tragedy.

He finds a box of fruits with the little blue stickers on them, and takes every single sticker and fastens it to the rude man’s face. Because, you know, he _was_ being a dick.

His back finds the cold wall of the bar again as he resumes his position, breathing out heavily to help himself slow down.

 

It’s quiet for a second, a half-formed insult making its way out of Arthur’s mouth before his mind catches up to what his eyes are seeing.

Then he bursts out laughing.

The drunk fight-picker looks bewildered, maybe insulted, as Arthur turns away from him to look at Barry, as if to ask him if he really did that, and the answer is of course he did, who else?

He looks so damn gleeful, Barry can’t help but giggle along, trying to hide it behind his hand and failing miserably because the rest of his body is squirming with the effort of stifling it.

It’s a fun little moment. It lasts exactly 5.6 seconds before a fist rams into Arthur’s face.

 

\--

 

So Barry failed to stop the barfight. He probably actually escalated it and made it all worse, which shouldn’t be a surprise by now.

It didn’t help that Arthur kept losing himself to the amusement of being attacked by a drunk guy with fruit stickers on his head.

They’re walking together- after getting kicked out of the bar, which is a first for Barry and not at all a first for Arthur, he learns- seemingly aimlessly through the cold harbour.

Well, Barry’s walking. Arthur seems to be going for something between a strut and a stumble.

“Okay, I know for a fact you drank jus’ as much as me, how the flying dutchman fuck are you stone cold sober?”

Barry wonders if he should reach out and stabilize him, but figures not. Arthur might get offended. Plus, it’s not as if he’s shambling, it’s actually kind of a graceful swagger when you consider that he hasn’t fallen down even once. Why does Arthur make everything look badass?

 

“Well, for one, I can’t get drunk.”

 

Arthur stops, abruptly. The bottle he’d swiped from behind the bar- compensation, he called it- is thankfully mostly empty when he smashes it into the ground so forcefully that Barry startles and jumps back a step.

“ _Fuck_ you mean, can’t get drunk?!”

“I mean I- like, exactly what I just said, I can’t get drunk. It’s not- physically, I am incapable of it. My body goes through it at, like, a crazy rate, it’s all gone before I can feel anything. If anything I just need to pee a lot.”

“So what, you made a bet knowing you couldn’t lose? Piece of shit move, Allen.”

 

And, wow, Arthur actually looks kind of pissed. Pissed and drunk. Barry’s sure he can still get his ass kicked by a drunk Arthur if the Arthur is also pissed, so he scrambles for an explanation.

 

“Wh- wha- the- the bet? You thought I meant that? That was just, like, an excuse, or a thing I said to convince you, you know, like a friendly not-bet bet.”

Arthur scoffs, shaking his head and pacing, and Barry stays and puts his hands in his pockets and scuffs his feet.

“You hated the bar, you hate drinking, you don’t pick fights. Why the hell’d you come along in the first place?”

Since Arthur probably means for it to be an antagonizing, rhetorical question but makes it sound genuine, Barry answers as genuinely as he can.

“You looked like you could use the company.”

Arthur looks at him, suddenly not looking nearly as drunk, and Barry wonders how the hell his eyes do that thing where they catch the light at every angle and look almost bioluminescent. Is it because he’s Atlantean, or is it an Arthur-specific trait? Barry’s kind of jealous. It looks cool, and intimidating.

“...I looked like I could use the company.”

 

Barry shrugs.

He can recognize a person that needs someone around but can’t, or won’t ask. Won’t admit it or recognize it.

 

And Arthur, well, he seems to read something good out of the shrug because he loosens up, chuckles to himself, then outright laughs.

 

“You put fuckin’ stickers on that guy’s face?”

“I was trying to distract you from fighting. Didn’t work out the way I planned.”

“Guy was a fuckin’ dick. He deserved an asskicking. Shame we got kicked out before I could really deliver.”

“Oh, don’t worry, I also put hot sauce in his drink.”

 

Arthur laughs again, uproariously, throwing his head back so his hair flies over his shoulders. Barry knows he doesn’t look so majestic when he laughs, but he laughs anyway.

 

“Well then, Barry Allen. You’ve proven yourself a better drinking buddy than I’d have thought, mostly because I never thought about it at all. Let’s do this again sometime.”

 

Then Arthur does a cool goodbye-salute as he throws himself backwards over the small waist-level wall, and Barry didn’t even realize they’d wandered into the harbour itself until he hears the splash.

And then he feels the splash, on his face, and if the ocean could laugh he swears he’d hear it right now. Or maybe it’s just Arthur; maybe there’s not much of a difference between the two.

 

He contemplates kicking the sea. The actual liquid part. Instead he yells, “Asshole!”, and then, “Don’t tell Bruce I got into a bar fight!”.

 

And if Bruce knows, he never mentions it.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If it seems like I'm churning these out too fast, it's only because I've already written all of them in my head.


End file.
